A Sporting Chance

Sometimes I look at the boys and feel overwhelming pride. Sports Day is one such time. Not because they can kick arse on the track, nor can they throw further and harder than any one else but simply because they are unbearably cute.

Every year I get to Sports Day a few minutes late. Every year I watch them scanning the sea of faces to make sure that I am there. Every year they stand there grinning and waving so much that they almost miss their place. Every year I look at these scrawny creatures with their innocent happy faces and want to eat them. By the time they get home they are tired, bad tempered and I want to jump on their head.

Not this year though. Yesterday was my birthday and they spent it with he that is best not mentioned. Today they came home from Sports Day tired, hot and secretive. They disappear for long periods, reappearing once in a while asking for another piece of fruit. Since hunger is a common sensation after school and particularly so on a day of great physical exertion, it was of little surprise.

And then they both crept in, bearing a birthday gift of fruitt salad with homegrown strawberries and the last of a much favourite melon, all garnished with flowers.

Now I really want to eat them. If they retain any part of their ability to love and to be loved, then stand a sporting chance of happiness as an adult. And the makings of what makes a real man.
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